To work, or not to work, that is the question

For the sake of the following text, I will use the word “job” and “work” interchangeably, to describe my primary source of livelihood. There is, of course, a range of “work” that supports my livelihood, both visible and invisible, paid and unpaid, performed by many others. Beyond the borders of the self, much “work” is done under extremely exploitative conditions, led by corporations that prey on minorities and immigrants, underpinning a system that breeds and fosters precarity. This is the network that sustains livelihood and self-sufficiency. Though beyond the bounds of this text, I hold it as my guiding thought and ethos, both in writing and in living.

I love my job. This was my dream – to work a job that I love, to make work feel less like work. Turn your passion into your job, they said, and I did,  yet it is not at all like they promised. I continually invest the personal into the professional for returns in the form of fulfilment, but I receive it already nullified by bureaucracy and drained by discontent. Here is the reality of the merging between work and vocation under a capitalist system: the amalgamation  of the self and the corporate in real time; the continuation of work past 10 – 7, so long as the self endures. I love my job, that is the truth, and here is another truth: I am a supplier of interest and heart for a business who keeps its means of production beyond the worker’s control. I love my job, but that love is no longer mine.

Olga Ravn’s The Employees is written in the form of an investigation. Statement after statement follows one another, detailing work in the Six-Thousand Ship, a 22nd century spaceship far from Earth powered by humans and humanoids. The human employees  were robbed of their memories, of any sense of self, presumably in a corporate attempt to manufacture uniformity. Then they brought onto the ship some strange objects from the planet New Discovery, and suddenly the employees, both human and humanoid begin to feel a longing: resurfaced memories, an ache for life where there is only work. What follows is a resurgence, quiet and dark, the slow descent of an institution suffering the consequences of its own cruelty.

“Every dystopia is a history of the future,” historian Jill Lepore once wrote in the New Yorker,  reflecting on Dystopian literature and radical pessimism. Older texts from Orwell, Atwood or Phillip K. Dick terrify us today because we have arrived at a future where parts of their tales take form; tales of dictatorship, surveillance, exclusion and incarceration that once seemed much too brutal and monumental to be real. Olga Ravn’s tale is different. Hers is, in essence, a story of a workplace – innocuous and routine. It is far from an imagined realm, save for the humanoids (in Ravn’s AIs who have been enhanced and perfected to mirror humans in detail. I reckon we’re a good few decades away from that). The horror that Ravn paints is subtle, hidden under elaborately programmed work that is carried out by exceedingly loyal workers. But they are, of course, only made subservient by a systemic exercise of surveillance and control. This is evident very early on as an employee describes the room containing the Objects:

“if you’ve been neglecting your work here, or if, well, allow me to be bold, if in any way you’ve inconvenienced the organisation, then you can wait as long as you want, the column of light isn’t going to appear. You won’t be permitted into the room. You’re not clean.” (p. 21)

This is no different from what workers experience in our world. Horgan shared under a subchapter titled “Workers, Monitored” that non-office workers barely have control over work and rest; their days managed and controlled by apps immune from dispute:

“…many workers do not have any control over how, when and where they do particular tasks at work. In his study of Deliveroo riders, Callum Cant describes the experience of being managed by a pick algorithmic technology, through an app […] when the output of your work is measured, and your every movement is mapped, failing to meet the expected standards can cause serious significant problems. The technology of the modern workplace is not the neutral driver of efficiency of Silicon Valley legend, but something coercive, towering over workers, acting as an extension of management’s power over them.” (p. 122)

Under the direction of machines, workers are increasingly treated as one themselves, expected to work at a mechanical pace and shift their emotions, deficiencies and frustrations to the side. These expectations are often supported by ratios that compute a worker’s performance, too, some of which – such as the accounting of the number of paid sick leave taken – are utterly inane. To the corporation, this framework makes for a good worker, a professional worker, a worker that will protect the company’s profit and interests. This worker is an engine, an industrial instrument, and this framework asks them, through a multitude of oblique ways, to be less human. “It’s a dangerous thing for an organisation not to be sure which of the objects in its custody may be considered to be living,” a statement reads, implying that the Six-Thousand Ship worked to dissolve consciousness with memory erasure and the introduction of humanoids – actual machines. Then, elsewhere, in a statement made by a humanoid, Ravn contends this reality and turns it on its head:

“I've been told there are problems with my emotional reaction pattern. They tell me I can't carry out my work correctly due to functional maladjustments with respect to certain feelings.[…] I need to train my cognitive flexibility if I am to be in the crew on an equal footing with those who were born. Is this a human problem? If so, I'd like to keep it.” (p.26)

Another statement, similarly made by a humanoid, further questions this framework of exploitation and the power relations that enable it:

“In the same place that she feels this longing for Earth inside her, I feel a similar longing to be human, as if somehow I used to be, but then lost the ability. I know I'm only humanoid and that it's not the same. But I look like a human, and feel the way humans do. I consist of the same parts. Perhaps all that's needed is for you to change my status in your documents? Is it a question of name? Could I be a human if you called me so?” (p. 47)

I’d like to be human, for as long as I am permitted, for as long as the self remains. Perhaps, a more pertinent question – could I be free? Existing within the corporation, living alongside the establishment, can I be free? With each statement I feel the employees’ discontent and indifference growing as rapidly as my own; unmistakable symptoms of workers who have been mechanised, whose life and character have been mined and pulverised for and by work. Ravn’s tale is too familiar. It is terrifying not because of its horror, or its odds, but because it is a history of the present, a picture of our immediate reality. 

“Engaging in conscious, creative, world-creating activities what is is to be human”, Horgan writes after Marx, who believed that this capacity is exploited under capitalism, thus alienating the worker from themselves and the world. In Horgan’s words:

“The worker is unable to make sense of themselves, and the world around them, their relationships with others become instrumental, and the whole world appears a something alien […] the experience of working under conditions you do not control, producing commodities that wield power over you, for someone else's profit, is the frustration of human potential.” (p. 74 – 75)

This idea pulsates in Ravn’s tale, too:

“What have I got left other than a few recollections of the earth with lost? I live in the past. I don't know what I'm doing on the ship. I carry out my work with complete apathy, sometimes even content. I'm not saying this to provoke you. Perhaps it's more of a cry for help.” (p. 67)

I love my job, for it is creative and free in nature. But this work is bound by a system cunning and unfree. I watch it bend and distort, taking its captor’s shape. Slowly it became quiet, empty. A house abandoned, a love discarded. Often I find myself mourning this work. This work I no longer recognise. This bruising, maddening work, this work I love all the same. 

This issue is not quite bad internal company policy than it is flawed industry practice. The term “Arts worker” occupies a realm separate from that of, say, “curator”, or more accurately, institutional curator – the white collar of the industry, perhaps a role that attracts glowing prestige, respect and, of course, pay. This status is directly linked to educational attainment, which Horgan calls “a false promise”. In Singapore, you’ll find many of them received their degrees from UK/US universities, an opportunity that is not only hard to secure but requires the conquering of a deeply meritocratic education system. Horgan’s passage (written in the context of the UK education system, which Singapore adopts) struck a rather tender chord:

“The history of schooling is a history of exclusion. This runs very much contrary to the mythology of meritocratic education, but it's true: at each successive stage of schooling, children and young people are filtered out, […] Our schooling system accelerates inequality, stacking the odds against those who have already missed out. These inequalities manifest themselves as a narrowing of possibility. Fewer and fewer options become available to working-class students. This narrowing presents itself as inevitable, natural and unproblematic.” (p. 92)

This mystifying belief in meritocracy contributes to the divide, which extends beyond class to the intersections between race and gender. The “arts worker” and “institutional curator” in Singapore have formed distinct profiles: think of the word and you will see a face, one likely to represent the demographic of the profession. There will always be, of course, people who hold tight to the belief that, in Horgan’s words, “if they wanted better jobs, they should have worked harder''. That would, however, imply that one is inherently better than the other, and I am not of such opinions. The change we need is structural. 

Let us start by questioning what we consider meaningful work in the arts. Prestige often comes at the tail of jobs that ask for intellectual or philosophical labour, but it is time we re-examine the conditions and rewards surrounding physical and administrative work, which makes up much of the arts worker’s trade (this, I trust, can also contribute insight and nuance to other classifications, such as that of the “artist” and craftsman”, which have eroded the status, pay and valuation given to the latter’s work). Cultural Institutions too, have much work to do to break the status quo: when the pandemic hit, museums saw workers leaving “in droves”, citing burnout and low pay. This isn’t new, not really. Parents for generations have discouraged their children from working in the arts because it doesn’t pay – not enough for a comfortable living amidst ever-increasing costs. This starts at the very bottom: internships at global institutions are often unpaid, leaving only a privileged few able to work in the field long-term. There is an impossibly high barrier to entry, and down the pipeline, this devastates intramural diversity. We are far from dissolving the gap, but the industry must move towards retaining and improving conditions for talented, passionate workers whose jobs are oftentimes personal vocation. Horgan delineates the elements that fosters recognition and respect for a profession: higher pay, more autonomy, and room for self-development. We’re far, yet I still keep faith – though sometimes I fear it is misguided and futile. But I want to celebrate this work, so desperately. I want it bustling and free. I want to gaze upon it and recognise myself. I love my job, and I want that love back. 

(Ravn, again):

“We want to escape from here, but not to escape each other, so this place is our only option. I carry out my work the way I've always done, though with a certain melancholy, and at the same time, because of her, with a joy unknown to me until now. I exist in this new combination of melancholy and joy, and this double emotion has become my companion.” (p. 61)

We all make attempts to offset and/or mask our dissatisfaction. Finding a hobby is one mission a few of my friends have embarked upon. Rock climbing, trekking, martial arts, baking, gardening. Past the boredom of lockdown, we are all looking for something beyond the confines of our jobs, something else – something better – to define us. This blog was my attempt, though reading and writing aren’t quite new hobbies. They were  activities I once loved dearly; lost to the demands of school and professional work. It was only when I started again, early in the days of the pandemic, that I understood how much work has changed me and how far I’ve deviated from myself. I felt an overwhelming sadness. I was longing for myself, and a potent fear that I have lost too much time and damned her for good gripped me for days on end. Ravn echoes this thought in a statement by a human employee, slowly losing themselves, not knowing if they are subject or object and questioning if it is perhaps freer to be a machine:

“Those of us from earth, we can hardly talk to each other. We are weighed down with memories of where we came from and what we left behind. Seeing the others on the ship here, speaking to them, all it does is make me unhappy. Everyone's got the same look of resignation on their face. I'd rather spend my time with humanoids, at least they still believe there is a life ahead of them that's worth living. […] We talk a lot about the weather. All of us miss the weather, which surprised us. It's as if the only thing we can bear to have in common is weather conditions on a lost planet. I don't think I've got a heart anymore.” (p.84)

Now, just a year after I started this blog, I see how fluid and all-encompassing “work” can be. Entering this community that calls itself “bookstagram” comes with its own set of social pressures, exacerbated by obscure algorithmic tricks. More than the usual exercise of identity curation, the platform offers insights geared towards marketing and self-promotion, elements that have nothing to do with quality content, or meaningful engagement. On this, Horgan offers the words of theorists Mareile Pfannebacker and James A. Smith, who wrote that “social media is a continuously rolling modelling portfolio, show-reel and curriculum vitae.” I would extend this by saying that it has deluded us into competing for the gig, though we may never truly know what the job will ask of us.

We have strategies to neutralise our discontent from inside In the workplace, too. At its best form, it could come in friendship that continues beyond the walls of the company; at its worst, it could be slacking off (which, I must say, can offer great pleasure. It does give you a feeling of conquering a villain, if only with a slight tinge of guilt). My favourite attempt, however, is corporate lingo. You know the one – circling back, touching base, moving forward. Though I find it incredibly frustrating when it is delivered by upper management as directives, appraisal or worse, newly-formed mission, its use in daily back-and-forth with external parties keeps me from going completely off the rails. Imagine this: you’ve spent weeks working on a project, when you realise an associate has been working in a completely different direction. For obvious reasons, you can’t say “are you kidding me?”, or “where can I return you?”. Instead, in mildly threatening snark, you say “there seems to be a disconnect”. It does little to power relations amongst peers, for everyone is equally able and entitled to use it. But it is a rush of power, for a short minute; a bid to regain a sense of control in a place where so much is out of our hands. The more I see of it, the more I believe the user is spiralling, and Ravn’s statements, as it happens, are teeming with corporate jargon: “I'd like to put forward a request to be placed in permanent dormancy.”; “I'd like to express my support in connection with the conflict. As funeral director here on board, I haven't always felt that my capabilities were being utilised to the full.”; “I regret to inform you that the committee set up to dismantle the humanoid employees has failed. [...] Having discussed the matter among the human section of the crew, we have arrived at this conclusion jointly and in full agreement.” As you can see – this story does not end well.

Spoiler alert – the Six-Thousand Ship is dissolved, and the Employees die, slowly. They were not afraid – this is the only light they can see. To them death is certain freedom. Statement 159 reads:

“No matter how hard I tried, I was unable to find the same kind of life here on board the ship. The work wasn't enough for me. I've lost myself. Every day, my hands you want to dig deep into soil so that I might lower myself into its certainty, and the earth receive my death and make me its own.” (p. 111)

As the Employees witness each other’s demise they begin to contemplate their nature. A humanoid makes reference to their mechanism, and I feel their words describe workers who are treated as instruments under the motions of capitalism, growing larger and faster:

“I want to take the opportunity to tell you I'm living. No matter what you say, I'm never going to believe otherwise. Enter it into the record. […] You’re human, aren't you, like me? Humanoid. A flicker between 0 and 1. You too are part of the design that can't be erased and will go on regenerating.” (p.116)

Elsewhere, their consciousness peaked: “In the programme, beneath my interface, there’s another interface, which is also me…” I remain in my belief that the self is not lost to work. Or, if it does feel lost, it is instead dormant, waiting for an exit. I share Ravn’s view that this can only be achieved, fully and meaningfully, through the dissolution of the system. Work does not have to end, but work as we know it under neoliberalism should. It might not happen in my lifetime, but I can dream. In the meantime I will take my newfound consciousness. I’ll take my small pockets of resistance. I’ll take back my love, and it shall never again belong to another entity, I swear it.

***

“I believe in the future. I think you need to imagine a future and then live in it. I believe in unfathomable quantities of nourishment. All of us here on board are but fleeting carrier craft of the programme. We bear in the programme with us. I think I'm going to encounter a great love in my life. My love is waiting for me already, I'm already in immersed in it. Look around here. We are bad craft, fleeting carriers of the program. Shortly we shall be gone, to regenerate in some other form. Have you noticed how we’ve settled into new mods now? We nest-build in spaces between sleep and waking, between night and day, between human and humanoid, between object and room, between room and voice. I believe in the future. I think you need to imagine your future and then live in it. I believe in unfathomable quantities of nourishment. [...] Everyone on the ship is doing their utmost. I believe in the future. I think you need to imagine a future and live in it. I believe in unfathomable quantities of nourishment. We are both humble carrier craft of the program. Shortly, like obsolete updates, we shall be gone. I believe I'm going to encounter a great love in my life.” (p.126)